Sunshine
by teebeewrites
Summary: Jughead Jones had no business being alive. So he made a plan: a cliff, a deadly drop into Sweetwater River, and so much water - that's the end of him. But meddling, annoying, perfect Betty Cooper had other plans that included him, too: an article, an octogenarian, and a Saturday driving away from Riverdale. Could Jughead finally find a little bit of sunshine in his stormy life?
1. Chapter 1

Jughead Jones wondered how his death would sound by tomorrow.

Would it even make the evening news? Probably. It wasn't like Riverdale was a big town where anything remotely exciting happened. Any news was big enough news to send the bored, lonely people of Riverdale abuzz.

He wondered how his friends would take it. Jughead had to laugh out loud at _that_. Jughead Jones didn't have friends. He used to, if that's what you can call Archie Andrews, Riverdale's own star quarterback and beloved boy-next-door, who had hung out with him back when Jughead's dad, FP, used to work for Archie's dad, Fred, in his construction business. They were pretty tight back then – best friends, really – but maybe it was because of the fact that their fathers were old high school buddies. Jughead thought it was neat, being best friends like their fathers had been, but then FP and Fred had a huge falling out not soon after (falling out was not the term Fred Andrews would have called 'stealing from his business' but then those were just technicalities, as FP would have insisted) and Jughead and Archie's friendship came crumbling afterwards. Jughead couldn't really blame Archie being a complete ass towards him after that. He would've been, too – if he had not been from the wrong side of the tracks.

He wondered if his mother would even cry? Jughead was pretty sure she wouldn't, the memory of her leaving them behind still leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Jughead knew Gladys hated Riverdale and everyone in it – called everyone "a sorry bunch of crazies" or, if she was less inclined to be polite, simply "pompous assholes". Maybe she even believed Jughead was like the rest of them – like his father, even – or else she would've let him come to Toledo with her. She brought along his little sister, Jellybean, after all – but not him. Maybe to her, his sorry ass belonged in Riverdale.

Jughead even wondered how his father would react – although he was pretty sure he knew the answer to that. Simply put, FP just didn't give a fuck. Hell, he probably had no idea where Jughead was nowadays anyway because Jughead was sure he was at the Whyt Wyrm or at that piece-of-shit trailer he called home – passed out drunk at either places. It had been weeks since Jughead had heard from his father. Living with FP alone was no picnic (and he couldn't remember a time when it had been) and it had taken all of three months after his mother and sister high-tailed out of town for Jughead to move out from the trailer, which the Southside Serpents, the local gang that terrorized the town and that is father was proudly a member of, was now using as their new drug den. If FP used to let his _"buddies"_ beat the shit out of him for fun, and didn't care that his underage son was squatting at the now soon-to-be-demolished Twilight Drive-In Theater, then Jughead was pretty sure FP didn't particularly care whether he was dead or not.

All Jughead was sure of was that his death sounded like a pretty good deal right about now.

He hadn't had much time to think about it, really. It wasn't like he went around thinking about ways to off himself day in and day out. Jughead wasn't _that_ morbid – even if everyone would probably say that he looked the part, dark hair and dark clothes and all. He just woke up one morning and decided he'd had enough. Jughead didn't think it was possible to feel that way that quickly, but he had. And once he had it in his mind that he wanted to end his life – no, _needed_ to end his life – there was nothing much to it.

Jughead had to say he had it coming. Good for nothing riffraffs like him had no business being alive.

Jughead didn't know the first thing about suicides. He neither had a car nor a garage so carbon monoxide poisoning was out of the question. He didn't own a gun (or had any idea where to get one, for that matter) and didn't actually have a place to hang himself (that dingy film room he was temporarily hiding in would probably cave at the slightest of weights). Pills were out of the budget so overdose was a no-go, and he thought slitting his wrists was just too damn slow.

He had almost given up on the idea when he stumbled upon an article written in the school's newspaper, _The_ _Blue and Gold_ , ten years ago about a student who had drowned in Sweetwater River. Jughead paused at that – drowning practically cost nothing and Sweetwater River was almost always devoid of people (except for wandering couples looking for undisturbed places to fuck). A dense outcrop of trees obscured a part of the river and most of the steep incline towards the rocky cliffs that lined the side of it – it seemed perfect.

Jughead didn't have much time to plan it all – that is if you could any of this planning. He didn't have much in the way of suicide notes, even though he prided himself for being quite an excellent writer. There was nothing much left for him to do or say, really – he just wanted to get over with it. He found that article on Thursday afternoon and spent most of the night thinking about it. He'd do it tomorrow, he decided, right after school when everyone was at the big football game and he had fallen asleep thinking how it would it feel to be dead.

Friday came bright and cheery – as if the world knew what Jughead was up to and agreed wholeheartedly. Jughead didn't mind. He was quite cheery too, in fact. He figured that when the end was so inevitably near, there was really nothing to be somber about. He didn't feel anxious or agitated at all – just completely at peace.

By the end of the day, Jughead was hanging out at his small cramped desk at the Blue and Gold office, practically imagining the walk up to the rocky cliffs and the smooth swift fall down the river. He was supposed to keep up his pretenses and do his job as an editor but the trivial articles turned in by their freshmen writers couldn't just keep his mind off of the icy cold water waiting for him.

"The hell I care about the declining quality of Riverdale High's toilet paper," Jughead muttered, clicking madly away in his school issued computer. It was an ancient thing and the monitor's coloring was so off it was hard to read from it. Jughead slouched in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. If he intended to die today, surely he didn't want his last hours spent on non-existent toilet paper problems. What sounded nice right about now was a cigarette and Jughead could almost taste the smoke in his tongue.

He rummaged inside his backpack for that crumpled pack he had and that was how Betty Cooper found him.

"Juggie," she said and Jughead almost groaned. Like Archie Andrews, he used to hang out with Betty Cooper when he was a lot younger but calling them friends was a long shot. She was like Archie in every way – the girl-next door in all her blonde perfection: a River Vixen, student body president, and the school paper's editor-in-chief. Betty Cooper was a grade-A overachiever. A perfect match to Archie's golden boy charm – and Betty Cooper knew that, even at the tender age of five. Ever since Jughead and Archie had been friends, he could remember little Betty Cooper in the background, following them around and trying to be part of all their games. Jughead didn't mind though, Betty always gave them awesome cookies. And when Archie went away, he figured Betty didn't want anything to do with him, too. Sucks, though. He did love those cookies even though he'd never admit it to her.

Betty Cooper always called Jughead _"Juggie"_ as if they were still in the playground playing tag. It made his ears burn in embarrassment. 'At least she didn't call me Forsythe anymore,' he thought with a shudder, remembering the time when Little-Miss-Perfectionist insisted on calling her that because it was his _proper_ first name.

"You know you can't smoke in here!" she said, finely shaped eyebrows shooting up. She crossed her arms over her pastel pink sweater and gave him a pointed look. She wasn't all that bad, Jughead figured. Sure Betty was a little annoying but at least she wasn't mean to him like the rest of the students of Riverdale High. They worked together in the Blue and Gold and she was probably the only student here that maintained a sense of civility towards him.

"I know, I know. Wasn't going to, " Jughead said with a sigh. He slipped one stick behind his ears and Betty scrunched her nose. "Ugh, smoking is disgusting!" she said. "And one of the leading causes of death. You don't want to die early, do you?"

Jughead stiffened at that. Oh if Betty Cooper only knew.

"You okay, Jones?" She was watching him closely, a curious look in her wide blue eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," Jughead replied, "just – you know – eager to get home." He almost cringed at his lie. Almost.

"Going to the game?" Betty piped and Jughead just gave a snort. He was never in any of the games and Betty knew that. Jughead glanced up to give her an incredulous look and noticed that Betty was not in her River Vixen uniform. Instead she was in her usual pink sweater and black skater skirt.

"What – you aren't going to go cheer for _Archiekins_?" Jughead nodded his head and motioned to her clothes. He felt a slight satisfaction as she flushed and glared at him. 'That's for the cigarette comment, _Betts_!' Jughead thought smugly.

"No!" Betty replied a little too heatedly. She took a deep steadying breath and gave Jughead a smile so bright he almost recoiled in his seat.

"I – I don't like that look," he said slowly. Betty sat down in front of his desk and gave him what he could only call a puppy dog look. Her blue eyes were wide and pleading and her pink lips slightly turned down into a pout.

"I was thinking," Betty started, "that maybe you can help me with this homecoming article I've been meaning to write. Tonight."

"And you pick _tonight_ of all nights to actually do this?" Jughead said. Internally, Jughead was cursing like a sailor. He had a wonderful date with death tonight all planned out.

"Well, yeah," Betty said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm heading the homecoming dance preparations, remember? I need to get this out of the way as soon as possible!"

"Just get Martin to do it!" Jughead said, hands inching towards his cigarette stick. Betty gave him a pointed look. Martin was the freshman writer who did the piece on the toilet paper – okay, maybe he wasn't the best choice for the job.

"Look, Betty –,"

"Please, Juggie! You're our best writer here!" Betty pleaded and Jughead chuckled bitterly. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, Cooper," he admonished, shaking his head.

"Look, I just think that it would be a lot more meaningful if seniors wrote this article. Like some nostalgic project or something before we go," Betty reasoned. Jughead felt his skin prickle at that. _Before we go_. Jughead eyed Betty, leveling his green gaze with her blue probing eyes. He wondered if there was any possibility that she knew what he was planning – if she knew about Sweetwater River. But Betty's pleading gaze was just that – a look that urged him to help her out, just like the ones she used to wear when they were kids and she asked to join in on their games.

Jughead sighed and looked out the window. The sun was far from setting but it gave of a nice sweet afternoon glow. He could maybe stay alive just another day, right? It wasn't like he was going to delay his plans forever. Nothing has changed, anyway. Sweetwater River was going to be there tomorrow, still empty, still cold, still deadly if it wanted to be.

"What the hell," he said with a sigh, finally relenting, "buy me a burger at Pop's!"

* * *

 **A/N: Back with a second one! Writing for Bughead is really getting addicting! So this idea came to me after reading Jasmine Warga's "My Heart and Other Black Holes", which happens to be one of my favorite YA books. I pondered on patterning the story after the book but thought better of it. I believe suicide and depression are topics best handled by experts and I don't want to botch it attempting to convert it into a Bughead story (not that depression and suicide stories are _bad_ \- I enjoy reading them, after all). That being said, I am kind of worried about this story because I'm so afraid I won't do the topic justice or may portray depression and other mental health issues in the wrong light, which is not my intention, of course. I am no stranger to depression and anxiety so most of Jughead's thoughts were based on thoughts I used to have to be as authentic as I can be. However, rest assured that I am still putting a lot of effort on research.**

 **On a lighter note, I had such a hard time writing FP as a bad father! FP is my next favorite Riverdale character - after Jughead, of course! And this story's Betty is slightly based on Harry Potter's Hermione Granger - who, now that I think of it, is not all too different from Betty - and Jughead and Betty's dynamics and antics were based _very_ _loosely_ on how Hermione and Ron interacted in the books (even if I am a die-hard Harry/Hermione shipper). All in all, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! This is mostly going to be about fluff (or smut, if I can squeeze it in) and hope - so breathe, sit back, and revel at the Bughead cheesiness I'm about to cook up. I'm not really good at multi-chapter stories but just have faith! :)**

 **Okay, I'm going to stop talking now - and I promise not to be this mouthy on the next author's note. Haha!**

 **This goes out to you who feel lonely, sad, abandoned, and totally giving up on life - this is a story of finding hope. I know you will find it, too.**

 **Cheers!**


	2. Chapter 2

Her MacBook Air had a pink case – the same kind of pink that matched perfectly with her sweater. And she ordered a strawberry milkshake – in that exact same shade as well, not even a hue lighter or darker.

Jughead found this absolutely absurd.

"You're way too pink," he blurted out. Betty Cooper, who was seated in front of him in a booth at Pop's, gave him an incredulous look.

"What?" she asked sharply, dainty pale fingers still poised above her keyboards. Jughead shrugged and munched on the fries Betty paid for. He didn't know why he noticed Betty's _pinkness_ during a time like this. Maybe his mind as going haywire – he was, after all, supposed to be dead right now, icy water flling up his lungs and complete darkness enveloping him.

"You got way too much pink shit going on, Cooper," Jughead said instead. Betty gave him a look, one that said he was absolutely crazy and Jughead just might agree right now. He can't believe that at a time like this all he could think about was how pink Betty fucking Cooper was.

"You're making me fucking crazy," he added as an afterthought and Betty laughed a short tinkling giggle that Jughead thought was as perfect as she looked and therefore was just as annoying.

"Betty Cooper: making boys all around crazy," Betty muttered, eyes still trained on her screen. Jughead gave a derisive laugh and Betty shot him a dirty glare.

"Can you at least pretend you're glad to be here?" Betty asked, still glaring at Jughead. "Well _you_ dragged me here, remember? It's not like is an absolute pleasure being here with you right now." Jughead said.

"And you consented, remember? _'Buy me a burger at Pop's!'_ –," she mimicked his earlier response with a roll of her eyes (for the record, Jughead thought, he got fries – not a burger). "What? It's not like you got better places to be at." Betty shot back. Jughead stiffened and glared at the blonde in front of him. Yes, he had better places to be at – like at the Sweetwater River, dead. He didn't need to be here, annoyed by some overachiever like Betty Cooper.

Betty flushed under his gaze. "Juggie, I'm so –,"

"Whatever." Jughead cut her off, "Just get this the fucking over with."

Betty shot Jughead an apologetic look that he pointedly ignored and took a deep breath. "Okay," she started, all business now. She clasped her hands in front of her and stared at him. "I want to interview Geraldine Grundy." She declared proudly, beaming at Jughead.

"Geraldine who?"

"Geraldine Grundy!" Betty said exasperatedly, as if Jughead should know who she is. When he looked blankly back at him she sighed impatiently and said, "you know – Riverdale High's oldest alumni! She used to teach music and head the cheerleading squad!"

"O-kaaaaay," Jughead said slowly, brows furrowed in confusion, "and you need me for this because?"

"Well," Betty started, "for one – I think you'd come up with great questions for her. You're a talented writer, Juggie. I saw your last work. Also –," she paused at this, "I need you to drive me to Greenvale."

She said this in a rush, as if she was ripping a band-aid off. Jughead stared blankly at him.

"Tonight?"

"No! Of course not tonight! What I mean is tomorrow!"

Jughead paused. _Tomorrow_? He glared at Betty as hard as he could. Jughead delayed his plans for tomorrow. His mind wandered off to Sweetwater River's rocky cliffs, its eighty-foot drop, its even rockier bottom, and its ice-cold water just waiting to devour him completely and bring him to oblivion. He thought of his crappy temporary home at the drive-in and how in a few weeks it would be completely gone. He thought about his mother and his drunkard father and how much he absolutely hated his life. He thought about all of these and how he hated Betty Cooper so much more right about now.

"No. _Fucking_. Way."

"But you agreed to help me out, Jughead!" Betty reasoned heatedly.

"Yeah, I did. Tonight!" Jughead's breathing was uneasy. Greenvale was a couple of hours drive from Riverdale. There was no way he was driving to and from there tomorrow.

"Well," Betty said carefully, "this article is not an overnight's work, you know. I was thinking we could drive there tomorrow and interview her. It's perfect, Jughead!"

Jughead almost scoffed out loud. He shouldn't even be worried about this shit. He'd be long gone before the article would roll out if he had anything to say about it.

"I want this to be extra special," Betty continued, "we'd be graduating soon and we'll be doing our own things. I just – want to do something memorable for this homecoming issue!"

"Yeah. Like you said, we'll be leaving soon, Betty. It's a goddamn high school paper that no one probably reads anyway. It's not like it's the New York Times or something!" Betty flushed at that and looked down. Jughead felt almost guilty. Almost.

"I know that," she said, "it's just that – what if we don't have the chance to do something better, you know? That maybe it's the last time that we get to write something. Maybe I become – I dunno – stuck with a dead end desk job or something and I don't get to write for a major paper like I'd hope to," Jughead just stared at her and Betty sighed.

"I just – don't want to do anything half-assed. Not when I feel this is the last time I get to do something really great." she finished. This was of no concern to Jughead, of course. He didn't want to live out to see if he would become a writer or anything else – there was nothing for him, he was sure. Betty Cooper was another story. She was perfect, smart, and driven – she would surely have so much opportunity to live out life like she imagined. For punks like Jughead Jones – well, it's another story.

Jughead looked down on his fries. They were soggy now, unappetizing, but still better than anything he could afford right now. He thought of his worn notebook tucked inside his frayed backpack that held all the stories he has ever written and how, by tomorrow, they'd never even see the light of day. He wanted to become a writer, too. More than anything. Writing was the only thing that kept him sane, he supposed. And if he'd actually given a fuck whether he'd leave behind a legacy or not, he would have wanted his writing to be immortalized out there forever. So he supposed he understood Betty at some level. He didn't get what was so important about a homecoming article at a high school paper, though – high school was high school – but he could understand.

They were silent for a while, Jughead toying with his fries, appetite lost, and Betty just staring cautiously at him. When he didn't say anything else, Betty took it as a sign to continue. Clearing her throat, Betty began discussing some of the questions she would like to ask Ms. Grundy and eventually, Jughead even threw in some ideas, which kind of surprised him. It looks like Betty wanted him to take pictures of Geraldine Grundy the octogenarian as well, knowing Jughead's knack for photography and claiming she was hopeless with a camera. He shook his head. There she goes with the flattery again, as if that could sway him into doing this stupid thing for her. It was working, sure, but Jughead tried to quell it as much as he can. Annoying Betty Cooper would not be the cause of delay in his plans – not if he could help it. Betty typed away in her laptop, brows furrowed in concentration, and Jughead just sat brooding beside her. He tried not to think about the emptiness and stillness that should have awaited him right now. Would he have been glad? Would it have hurt? Jughead didn't care. He still wanted it and the longer they stayed here in a cramped booth at Pop's, the more he resented life and Betty Cooper.

Jughead chanced a glance at the blonde girl. He knew he shouldn't be too mad at her. Betty didn't know he planned to kill himself tonight but her eagerness and hopefulness stirred something unpleasant in him. 'She's too goddamn naïve for her own good, that is,' Jughead thought and looked away. Students were trickling in now – the game was probably over. Jughead sunk lower on his seat, feeling angrier.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he muttered at her, tugging consciously at the gray crown beanie he always wore. Betty looked up and gave him a confused look. "Everyone's coming back. Don't want your friends seeing you with the loser kid from the wrong side of the tracks, do you?" Betty looked around and noticed how the diner had become significantly rowdier. She glanced down at a frowning Jughead and sighed.

"Well, I think were set anyway," she said, closing her laptop with a soft snap. "Walk me home?"

The walk home was awkward and quiet. Jughead had never spent time alone with Betty, even when they had been younger. Betty was always too preoccupied vying for Archie's attention for them to have a proper conversation anyway. And working at the school paper was stiff and formal, surrounded by other peers who were almost as into writing as they were. Tonight was different. Tonight, it was just the two of them and the wide empty expanse of Maple Street, shoulders almost brushing as they made their slow way towards Betty's house. It was at the opposite side of town from the drive-in theater but Jughead didn't say anything. Betty didn't need to know about his situation. It was a chilly night and Jughead tugged at his denim jacket, shoving his cold hands inside the pockets. Betty's ballet flats made soft plop-plops against the asphalt, her blonde ponytail swishing side to side as they walked. She walked with her eyes trained forward, chin jutting out, and Jughead wondered what it felt like to walk in this world confident, content, and sure.

"I don't mind, you know," Betty's voice cut him out of his reverie. Jughead cast a sideways glance and saw that she was looking at him now, blue eyes bright.

"What?"

"I don't mind if they saw," Betty continued, "if they saw me with you, that is. I don't mind. There's nothing wrong with that – there's nothing wrong with _you_."

Jughead didn't respond to that but instead gave a shrug. He didn't know what to say. People rarely said nice things to him so Betty's comment had caught him off guard.

"Just a thought," he said and his voice came out as a croak. Betty sighed. "We're friends, Juggie. I mean we _used_ to – before you became all broody and sulky," she giggled at that and Jughead found that he wasn't as insulted as he usually would be.

"Used to, yeah."

"I want us to be friends," Betty said slowly, almost unsurely. She stopped at looked at Jughead with something unnamed in her big blue eyes. Jughead thought it was determination, or maybe it was apprehension – either way, Betty looked at him almost feverishly, holding his gaze down. "I want us to be friends," she said this with more confidence this time, more sureness, "I think it's not a bad idea."

"Yeah it is," Jughead said with a smirk, "Archie's not around to run after anymore, Betty. We have nothing left in common." Betty flushed and frowned and Jughead almost mentally kicked himself. He was never great at this. He was sulky and snarky and untrusting – it was too late to change that now. Especially when he was just so done with life.

"I'm sorry," Jughead said, scratching the back of his neck. Betty took a deep breath and smiled. They began walking again.

"That's fine. I don't care about that anymore. Archie used to make me cry all the time anyway," Betty said after a while. He knew this was a lie, of course. Betty still cared very much about the redhead and they both knew that. Jughead wanted to say Archie still makes her cry but thought the better of it. He had caused enough damage for tonight. Betty and Archie had dated for a while but when the edgy New Yorker, Veronica Lodge, moved to Riverdale, Archie had thrown Betty away like yesterday's newspaper and had moved on to a more exciting, less-modest relationship with the newcomer. Betty hasn't moved on, as far as he knew. To her, they had always been and forever will be endgame.

They came to a stop in front of the Coopers' house. Jughead eyed it with curiosity. It wasn't too big – just a two-storey house with a red front door and a well maintained front lawn. Still, it was so much better that the run-down trailer he used to call home. He fidgeted slightly, uncomfortable now that their difference was highlighted so much by the simple fact of her home. He felt rugged in comparison, only just standing by the fringes of the front lawn, in his worn jacket and fraying jeans. Betty was immaculate beside him – brand new sweater, shiny shoes, and all.

"I – I loved you cookies, from when we were kids," Jughead blurted out suddenly, wanting something to say to break the silence. He had been thinking about his childhood – their childhood, really – and remembered how she used to bribe him with the treats to convince Archie to let her come with them. "If you remember. Just – you know – thought you should know."

Betty laughed and Jughead realized that apparently Betty Cooper could laugh without grating on his nerves. She bobbed her head, a faraway look in her eyes.

"Yeah – yeah, I do. The chocolate chip ones, right? I used to bake them with my Mom."

They faced each other awkwardly and Jughead had an absurd thought, wondering if this is how awkward first dates go. Jughead felt the tips of his ears burn.

'The fuck are you thinking, Jones?' he thought, shaking his head. Jughead didn't go out on dates and most certainly, perfect little blondes like Betty wouldn't be caught dead on a date with men like him. Jughead shook his head again – dates and Betty Cooper should _never_ occur to him in the same thought. Never. Betty tugged at her ponytail and looked at Jughead, looking as awkward as he felt. He guessed she realized they'd never been alone together, too.

"Looks like it's gonna rain tomorrow," Jughead said, looking up at the heavy purple clouds in the sky. He gave a low whistle and shook his head, "might want to have an early start if we're gonna do this Grundy article."

Betty's eyes brightened and she practically bounced as Jughead said that.

"You mean – you're coming with me? We're doing this?" she said excitedly. "Oh my gosh, thank you, Jughead!" she grasped his hands with hers and swayed them lightly. Jughead almost recoiled at the sudden contact. Her hands were smooth and warm against his ice cold calloused ones.

"You don't know how much this means to me," she said earnestly and Jughead feared she would pounce and wrap him in a hug. He hated any form of physical contact. He tried to tug his hands away but Betty just gripped them tighter. Betty beamed at him and Jughead felt himself redden a bit under her gaze.

Jughead shrugged. It did look like it was going to rain tomorrow and the cliffs beside Sweetwater River would be all muddy and much harder to climb. He wanted a quick death – something easy and not in need of so much hand-eye coordination. It wasn't a good day to jump tomorrow anyway, he decided.

'Nothing has changed.' Jughead told himself firmly. He still wanted to die.

* * *

 **AN: I hope you like this chapter much better than the last one (I think no one really liked it that much). See you all next chapter (which is done, btw)! Cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

Jughead realized he never really got a text message before that was not _"get me sum beer boy!"_ or _"wer are u, u son of a bitch?"_ He never got invited anywhere and had zero social interactions so it never actually bothered him. Sure, he pursued girls before, however dismal their actual count was – kissed them, fucked a few even, Southside girls were not exactly prim and proper – but he never had a real conversation with anyone before.

 _Do you know how to drive a stick shift? :P_

Jughead read and reread Betty's text message, fingertips tracing the smiley at the end. It felt almost surreal even that Betty Cooper was texting him – emojis and all. He sighed and started typing:

 _Yes._

Jughead rolled his eyes. What a goddamn conversation genius he was, really. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't like he could tell her that the reason he knew how to drive a stick shift was because his Dad and his buddies would sometimes steal cars. It wasn't hard to pick up a thing or two if you were always around them. Yes, Betty Cooper – good, pure Betty Cooper – didn't need to know that he had the makings of someone who could probably pull of a grand theft auto someday.

 _Great! I was afraid you didn't. I certainly don't. lol. My dad would only let me borrow his old truck. It's sucky. I'm soooorrrryyyy…_

Jughead's eyes followed the message again, smirking slightly as he imagined Betty whining and pouting at the end. His fingers hovered over his phone, debating if he should reply and what he should say. But before he could reply, another text message from her appeared.

 _Thanks again, Juggie! I owe you bigtime. I'm making your cookies right now ;)_

Jughead felt weird to be smiling. But there he was in the tiny cot squished between the wall and a shelf of film rolls, smiling like an idiot. His stomach rumbled at the thought of cookies.

 _Cookies? Make sure you got extra chocolate chips if you want me there bright and early. Haha._

'Look at you. Are you fucking flirting with her, Jones?' he thought to himself. Jughead sighed sharply and rubbed his eyes. This was Betty Cooper – golden girl extraordinaire – he shouldn't be even thinking about it. Jughead dropped his phone and turned over, not bothering to look if she replied back. She probably wouldn't anyway. He was _Jughead_ , after all. Southside trash. The unusual outburst of cheeriness from her earlier messages disappeared and Jughead found that the return of his anger was almost comforting. He tugged at the thin blanket, and for the first time didn't curse the cold.

At least the cold reminded him of reality – reminded him of who he really was.

His mood hadn't really changed that much come morning. In fact, Jughead thought he felt worse. He didn't even want to get out of bed let alone trudge all the way to Betty's house. The weather reflected his mood perfectly. It did look like it was going to rain. The sky outside was dark and ominous and the wind was damp and chilly – a total opposite from the bright sunny day yesterday. Jughead curled up and groaned. Maybe Betty would think twice about driving out to Greenvale if the weather was so bad. But just as soon as he thought of it, the shrill ring of his phone reverberated from below his cot like a scream that filled the tiny room.

"What?" Jughead snapped when he picked up. Betty's tiny gasp answered back.

"Oh, good. You're awake!" She said and Jughead groaned again. "Can you be here at fifteen minutes? I want to drive out before the rain starts." It looks like nothing can hamper Betty Cooper's mood.

She was already standing in their driveway when Jughead arrived, sunshine yellow sweater like a burst of color in the dreary weather. Betty ditched her signature high ponytail today and wore her curly blonde hair down, the sides pinned up by two white barrettes. She had a Tupperware in her hands and practically beamed at the sight of Jughead.

"Great," she said, almost sagging in relief, "I almost thought you were going to ditch me." Jughead wanted to say he almost did but bit it back down. "You didn't reply to my message last night so I thought –," Betty trailed off and flushed a deep pink. She cleared her throat and held the container in her hands up.

"Chocolate chip cookies, just like the old times!" she declared and Jughead allowed a smile to break through. He didn't have too many happy memories of his childhood. Betty's cookies were one of the few, if he ever had one.

"Man, delicious!" Jughead finally said as he crammed one cookie after another inside his mouth. Betty flushed again and beamed back at him, practically proud of herself.

"Thanks," she said, chin jutting out, "didn't need my mom's help this time," she jokingly added and Jughead chuckled. He gulped down and felt a little less moody. He didn't know what it was, really. Maybe Betty's chocolate chips cookies were _indeed_ magic. He carefully selected another one – the one that had the most chocolate chips – and jammed it gracelessly into his mouth. Betty didn't seem to mind. She was still beaming at Jughead as though she could believe he was here. He couldn't blame her – he almost couldn't believe it too.

"Lose the ponytail?" Jughead teased and felt almost smug as Betty blushed, the pink creeping down her slender neck. "Oh, um – yeah – I wanted to look better for when we meet Miss Grundy," she said, refusing to meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus on the tips of her cream-colored soles. Jughead looked down on his own outfit: a dark blue hoodie under his denim jacket, faded and fraying jeans, scuffed combat boots, and that crown beanie he never parts with – hardly something presentable but it wasn't like he had anything better to wear.

"You look good," Jughead said looking back up at her, surprising the both of them. They stood around awkwardly, just as they had last night, before Jughead cleared his throat and motioned towards the truck. "Shall we?"

Betty had everything planned out, of course. It takes about three hours to drive to Greenvale from Riverdale at the very most and when traffic is real bad. Jughead felt uneasy knowing they'd be driving around most of the day but Betty assured him they'd make it back to Riverdale before dinnertime. The truck was an old thing and they didn't have a GPS they can rely on. Betty thought about that, too, and told Jughead that the Maps in her phone was fine. Everything should be well and in accordance with her plan, Betty was so sure. But the thing about life, which something Jughead could attest to, was that things rarely go your way especially if you were particularly rooting for it to. Traffic was exceptionally bad and cellular reception was even worse. What's more, it turns out that while Betty may be good at everything else in life, her navigation skills were ghastly. By mid morning, they had barely covered one-fourth of their travel and had gotten lost a good three times. By lunchtime, stomachs were rumbling and tempers were running high.

"Turn left! Turn Left!"

"Betty, we're running around in circles," Jughead said with barely controlled anger. "Check the map again – and get it right this time." Betty paused, brows furrowed before she yelped. "Hey! We should have taken a right just then!"

Jughead groaned and Betty swatted his arms. "Shut it, will you? I'm trying here. Apparently maps are really hard to read!" Jughead rolled his eyes at her. Betty just had to be the worst map-reader ever. He was surprised she can even tell left from right.

"Not as hard as driving around with you giving wrong directions all of the goddamn time!" Jughead said. Betty rolled her eyes and checked her phone again. Jughead glanced down at the empty Tupperware and wished they hadn't gone through the cookies as quickly as they had. His throat felt sore now, though, because they hadn't thought of bringing water to wash it down, and it added to his irritation. A red Prius was in front of them, driving too slow for jughead's liking and he beeped on the horn angrily, cursing wildly.

"You're a fucking menace!" Jughead snarled as they passed the Prius. Betty gave him an incredulous look. "Jughead Jones III," she said, "calm down!" Jughead would have laughed out loud at the use of his full name if he weren't already fuming. He sped up, engine whining, and took comfort in the fact that Betty was clinging to her seatbelt like her life depended on it.

"Could you maybe – I don't know – stop driving like a maniac on the loose?"

"Sorry babe, I only drive at one speed."

Betty reddened and Jughead felt smug seeing her so flustered. She always seemed so composed and flawless – Jughead thought a flushed, ruffled Betty Cooper made him feel a lot better about himself.

"Well, there's a diner somewhere here, I think," Betty looked down on her phone again, "Yes, there's one to the right. Let's get lunch first. I'm hungry."

The diner looked exactly like Pop's, with red faux leather booths and plastic chairs, but the food was terrible. They didn't mind though – food was food and it looked like there was no other stop on the way. Betty daintily ate her egg sandwich while Jughead hastily poked at his burger. Betty insisted she pay for lunch, since Jughead did all the driving and she did get them lost a couple of times. It didn't sit well with him, her paying for his lunch. The tips of his ears felt warm. Betty paid for his fries last night but this was different. Last night, she had dragged him to Pop's almost against his will and the fries were in exchange for the favor. She already baked him cookies, for crying out loud – something his own mother never even did – so she didn't need to pay for him today. It made him feel uneasy and vulnerable.

"I'll pay you back for the burger," Jughead said for about the tenth time since their food arrived. Betty rolled her eyes, "I know, Juggie. I wanted to pay for it. I feel bad for getting us lost," she reasoned. Jughead opened his mouth to retort but Betty cut him off with an irritated sigh, "you know what, you go ahead and pay for dinner tonight, okay? Geez, Jones, this is the 21st century. Women pay for their own stuff now," she ended this with another roll of her eyes.

"It's not that and you know it,"

"I know. Just – shut up and eat you burger, please. Before we kill each other."

Jughead looked down at his burger and sighed. Oh well, he was starving. The dumpy waitress sauntered back to their table, bottle-dyed orange curls escaping her hairnet. She gave them both a pleasant smile and refilled their empty glasses with cool water.

"Where ya headed, huns?" she asked, chewing on a pink piece of bubble gum. Jughead and Betty looked up from their food. "News said weather's bound to be horrible. A storm, they said. Nasty,"

"Oh, um – Greenvale," Betty answered carefully. Jughead looked out the window. The sky looked like it was churning. It wasn't raining yet, but soon it will be.

"Greenvale," the waitress repeated slowly, looking up as though she was in deep thought. "Still some ways from here. Again – they said it's bound to be nasty. And you young ones should stay clear of the road," she clucked like a hen and placed her hands on her hips. "Get going real quick or else you gunna be stuck here," she clucked again and moved on to the next table.

They wasted no more time after that, driving in silence until they reached the bustling town of Greenvale. It was much bigger than Riverdale, Jughead noted, and busier, too. Shops lined the streets but it looks like most of them were closing up for the day. "I think the storm's going to be really bad," he said to Betty, who just offered him a worried glance. It hadn't started raining but the wind has definitely picked up. Outside, people huddled in to their jackets and coats, hurrying away from the wind. Betty yelped suddenly and Jughead jumped and hit his head on the truck's ceiling.

"Don't do that!"

"I forgot my coat at the diner!" Betty said, eyes wide as plates. She groaned and sagged into her seat. "That's my favorite pea coat!" Jughead remembered – it was a pretty little thing, pink like most of her things were and definitely brand-new. Jughead looked down at his only denim jacket and sighed, contemplating driving back to get it. He hated wasting things because he can rarely afford anything and felt uneasy not doing anything to get Betty's coat. He signaled to turn and Betty laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

"No, don't turn around now," she said, "it's too far away anyway. And we're almost at Ms. Grundy's house. We'll just get it back on the way back or something." Jughead almost argued that with something as pretty as that, she would surely never get it back but had to agree with her – the earlier they arrived at Miss Grundy's house, the better. He wanted to be back in Riverdale by tonight. He could no longer afford to delay his plans to jump off from the cliffs in Sweetwater River. If he didn't do it soon he's afraid he might never get around to doing it. That's what they said, right? Jughead didn't want to stick around to find out if it was true. And if Betty – or anyone else, for that matter – would find a way to delay him further then, God help him, he's going to take her with him down to the river. He cast her a quick glance and felt kind of bad for the last thought.

'But I'm still going to be fucking pissed,' Jughead thought.

Geraldine Grundy's house was not at all what they expected. In Jughead's mind, her house would be a quaint Victorian with honey-colored furnishings and a handful of cats. Miss Grundy's house was a modern piece of art – all glass and wide windows and an Asian-inspired garden adjacent to it. The inside only matched the outside's grandiose with abstract artworks in a spectrum of colors peppering the otherwise stark white walls. A sleek sofa took up most of the living room – something that Jughead expected to see in a twenty-something's apartment rather than in an old lady's house. If fact, if Betty hadn't told him that Geraldine Grundy was Riverdale High's oldest living alumni, he would have easily mistaken her personal nurse as her. The nurse opened the door when they knocked, smile so bright it almost shamed Betty's. Jennifer, as she had introduced herself, was a pretty little thing – barely even thirty – that boys at Riverdale High would've gladly ogled at.

"Come inside. Geraldine's doing yoga out back," she said sweetly. Jughead gave Betty an ill-disguised look of amusement, which Betty shot down with a warning look. Jughead pictured a granny in her floral print dress and rollers doing sun salutations and almost burst out snickering.

"You must be Elizabeth. Oh, what a darling!"

Geraldine Grundy was no granny in rollers and frumpy dresses. She was a small woman with a shock of white hair cut into a stylish pixie cut. She made her way to them, both arms extended, surprisingly steady for her age. Jughead remembered his own grandmother – his mother's mother – and how at fifty she had a plethora of illnesses he could barely even pronounce. Geraldine Grundy would've looked like a hip young thing if not for her hair, her wrinkles, and her age spot-covered hands.

"Oh, it's nice to meet you, Miss Grundy," Betty got over her shock and blinked, extending a professional hand towards the old lady but she was not having any of it. Instead she gave Betty kisses on both cheeks.

"Geraldine, please, sweetheart! Miss Grundy makes me feel so old!" the eighty-nine-year-old said. Jughead and Betty shared a look.

"This is, um – this is – Jughead Jones. We work on the school paper together," Betty said awkwardly, pulling at Jughead's arm. Jughead gave a small uneasy bow, praying that Miss Grundy wouldn't kiss him the way she did with Betty. She did anyway and Jughead had to swallow the urge to scream.

"Jones, you say?" Miss Grundy said thoughtfully, "as in Forsythe Pendleton Jones?"

"Uh – yeah, I guess. You'd have to be more specific though. I'm already the third Forsythe Pendleton Jones," Jughed blushed, scratching the back of his neck and shuffling his feet. Miss Grundy gave an amused laugh.

"I knew both of them, of course. Your grandfather, I suppose. Well, we used to date. And your father – such a troublemaker when I had him in my class, than one," she shook her head and grasped his face, turning it this way and that. Jughead debated telling her that FP had graduated from being a troublemaker into a full-fledged criminal, but Miss Grundy seemed to be so glad to talk about his father and his estranged late grandfather that he said nothing. "Hmm, yes – you look just like him!" she declared with delight. "Your grandfather and your father had always been exceptionally good looking," she patted his cheek with fondness, "what a handsome man you are, Forsythe!"

"You're one lucky gal, Elizabeth!" She gave another delighted laugh and before a blushing Betty could correct her, she had swept them into the dining room where she said cakes and tea was waiting. The dining room looked a lot like what you'd expect an old lady's dining room would look like, so much so that Jughead felt relieved to have a break from the absurdity that was Geraldine Grundy and her house that looked like a millennial art collector's pad more than anything. There was a delicate pastel colored tea set on top of a dark mahogany table. The ceiling-to-floor window gave a wonderful view of the garden and bathed the room in the dull afternoon sunlight.

"I hope you don't mind doing the interview here, Elizabeth – Forsythe," Miss Grundy said, "I do love my tea. Too bad I wasn't born British!" Miss Grundy had an airy laugh, one that made Jughead quite uneasy. She was pleasant – much too pleasant than he was used to.

"Oh - um, okay, anytime you're ready, Geraldine," Betty said, fumbling around inside her purse for her notebook. Geraldine Grundy filled three cups with hot tea and took a seat, as if this was something she did everyday.

"Fire away, Elizabeth my dear,"

Betty was all business after that, doing most of the talking. Jughead stalked around them, snapping pictures of the two women and of the house. He tried taking as much pictures of Geraldine as he can – it was after all, the reason why he was here – but he found that he didn't find the accomplished lively octogenarian all that riveting, even if she did found a flourishing furniture company after twenty years teaching in Riverdale High and appeared as healthy as bull despite her age. Jughead found that his gaze kept flittering back to Betty, who was so in her element she seemed to glow from within, back ramrod straight, slender legs tucked one behind the other, and blue eyes alight as she spoke. Jughead watched as her brows furrowed in concentration whenever Geraldine Grundy answered a question and how she would absently bite her bottom lip as she jotted down notes. He noticed that her face came alive with a full spectrum of expressions – from thoughtful, to sympathetic, to excited – and he found it absolutely mesmerizing. Jughead never felt anything other than the stagnant broodiness of his life – he was never excited, or happy, or impassioned, at least not in the way Betty Cooper was. In this moment, Jughead had to say she was pretty, with her golden hair cascading over her shoulders and the muted daylight pouring in from the windows giving her creamy skin a soft glow. It didn't mean anything though, Jughead was sure. It was a passing fancy – a curiosity, he supposed – because Betty was just so different from who he was.

Jughead jumped when Betty looked up, blushing slightly because she caught him studying her. Jughead brought the camera in front of his face and snapped a quick snapshot of her. He took one again when she looked away and she looked back up at him, nose scrunched up slightly in a way (and he would never admit this out loud) that he found quite adorable, giving him an amused smile.

"Stop that," she mouthed at him.

"Focus," Jughead mouthed back, eyes flittering towards the still oblivious Miss Grundy. Betty rolled her eyes and bit her lips, trying to keep from grinning, before looking back at the octogenarian, who had not stopped her anecdote on Principal Weatherbee and the time he almost flunked her English class.

Jughead felt quite like a fool too, to be honest, but right now he couldn't care less. He was grinning so wide his jaw hurt. It was such an odd feeling, smiling so much, because Jughead Jones had never really cared to do it before. People like him, who had it rough, had no reason to smile – but there was, grinning like an idiot who had won the lottery or something. This caused him such trepidation because he felt that this exhilaration, this bubbling in his gut, was a disaster waiting to happen. Even right now – with Betty giving him small smiles from across the room – Jughead was waiting for the rug to be pulled from underneath him. This feeling cannot be trusted because it was so foreign to him. It made him feel a little nauseous as if his body was physically rejecting this alien sensation. Jughead took a deep breath and waited for his coldness and gloom to claim his insides once more. He waited for his resentment and rage to boil again. Anger was safe. Sadness was safe. He'd rather have that – any of that if it means he was sure.

From her seat, Betty pulled a funny face before giving him a bright smile that warmed him to the tips of his toes and fingers.

He waited for the hopelessness – the raging storm inside him – to come back, but this time it didn't.

* * *

 **A/N: Yeah... I might have really used "My Heart and Other Black Holes" as inspiration for that last part. But I just couldn't help it! Anyway, thank you so much for all your kind words (and all your favorites and follows, too!) Hope you can keep the love pouring! Hihi. I'm a little busy right now as I try - and fail - to become a social butterfly so I might not be able to update the next one this week (it's halfway done, though). Oh, and maybe I'll write something for Harry Potter, too. Soon, I hope. Well, I'll see you next chapter! Cheers!**


	4. Chapter 4

Jughead smoked his first cigarette when he was thirteen.

He remembered it clearly. Jughead remembered how warm it was that day and how the afternoon sun flittered in from the broken and bent up blinds covering the window by their front door. His mother, who was still kind of good at pretending she wanted to fix their family by then, was cooking spaghetti and he could smell the marinara sauce and the doughy smell of boiling pasta. Jellybean, who was never far from her, was seated at their slightly rickety dining table, coloring. A Beatles song was playing –

 _Here comes the sun – doo doo doo doo_

 _Here comes the sun_

His mother had a nice voice even if it was kind of hoarse and husky. His mother stepped away from the stove long enough to ruffle his hair and give him a smile, telling him to leave his boots by the door. She lit a cigarette then, the smell of tobacco mixing in with the marinara, and Jughead watched as she blew out a slender tendril of smoke. He didn't find it disgusting, or smelly – he just found it oddly comforting. It was a different story with FP, of course. He too always smelled of tobacco – and of sweat, liquor, and sometimes even slightly of sick – but it never held anything comforting. It didn't that afternoon, when he came crashing into the trailer, yelling profanities. Jellybean cowered in her seat and Jughead ambled over to put an arm around her bony shoulders. He didn't remember what happened but he remembered their parents shouting. He can't remember what FP's problem was, but he remembered getting hit, sending his skinny body crashing to the linoleum floor, bright spots exploding in his vision.

There was no dinner that night – FP sent it crashing to the floor not soon after. And the cramped trailer was so tense Jughead felt as if he couldn't breathe. Jughead could hear Jellybean crying and he wanted to cry too. Thirteen-year-old boys didn't cry, he thought. So he went out to the kitchen, tiptoeing as quietly as he could, to get a glass of water to try and calm his nerves and growling stomach instead. He saw it then, just by the sink – his mother's pack of cigarettes. There were three sticks left, white and slender and inviting. He brought it under his nose and inhaled, smelling the slightly minty leafy smell.

Out by their small backyard covered in weed and overgrown, drying bushes, Jughead lit one, the soft _pfft_ of the lighter almost drowned by the cicadas. He watched as the end of the cigarette gave a faint orange glow and took a tentative drag, just as he'd seen his mother do. He broke out coughing, of course, but it felt cold in his throat – cool, calming.

That's what Jughead felt right now, taking a drag from his cigarette. He finished one and crushed it beneath his boots and immediately lit another one. Each drag felt like a piece of him returning.

He didn't like how Betty made him feel inside that dining room. He didn't know what it was, didn't understand what it could do to him. He closed his eyes and shakily let out a breath, enjoying the smell of tobacco smoke that surrounded him. He thought of his dread, his anger, and his sadness. He thought of the cliff and of Sweetwater River. He thought of death. But somehow it felt – out of sorts, like an old video worn out by time.

"Fuck," Jughead muttered under his breath.

"There you are!"

Betty sidled up to him, bumping a sweater-clad shoulder against his denim-clad one. Jughead jumped slightly and took a step away from her. He could smell her perfume, a sweet rose-scented one with tinges of lavender, and suddenly he felt it was just too much.

Betty looked around the garden and sighed, "this is something, right? She's something," she noted. Jughead didn't say anything. They could hear Geraldine Grundy puttering around inside, ordering Jennifer to tell the cook to whip something good for dinner for her young guests. It had started raining by then and the drumming on the roof sounded like roars in Jughead's ear. Betty let out a hand gathered droplets from the overhang of roof they were standing under and Jughead looked away. She looked ethereal just then, and Jughead couldn't stand Betty Cooper being anything other than her old annoying self.

"I want to go now," Jughead said and almost laughed at how much he sounded like a six-year-old throwing a tantrum. Betty turned to him and frowned, "Geraldine's cooking us dinner," she reasoned.

"Yeah – well, fuck dinner. I just want to go home," Jughead muttered. Betty's frown didn't let up but instead deepened.

'She must think I've gone crazy,' Jughead thought, mind flittering to their moment earlier. 'Well, I am crazy. I'm batshit insane.'

"Juggie," she breathed, "we can't just go, you know. It's impolite." She scolded him like he thought a mother would and this caused Jughead to give a sad chuckle. The more they talked, the more that dark cloud returned to him, and the more he felt like himself.

Geraldine poked her head through the glass door behind them just then, ending any possibility of discussion.

"I hope you love beef bourguignon!" she exclaimed in that high tinkling voice of hers. Betty beamed back at her and clasped her hands to her chest. "Of course, we love beef bourguignon," she said with an enthusiasm Jughead knew wasn't forced.

"I don't even know what the fuck that beef bou-something is!" he hissed at her when Geraldine left to tell the chef some buttered asparagus sounded nice too.

Dinner was an awkward affair; at least it was to Jughead. The rain thundered on and at least for that he was glad because it muffled his thoughts and whatever conversation Betty and Geraldine were having. Beef bourguignon turned out to be more heavenly than burgers so for that he was begrudgingly thankful.

"This is really good," Betty told Geraldine and Jughead nodded in agreement silently after her statement.

"I would serve you wine," she told them, "but then again, I _was_ a teacher," she gave her airy laugh again, patting Betty's hand affectionately.

"How is your grandfather, Forsythe?" Geraldine piped up, "Because I can certainly use a date!"

Jughead gulped and set down his fork. "Oh – um – he's dead."

"Well, that isn't so surprising, of course," Geraldine said with a sigh, shaking her head slightly, "at this age."

Betty and Jughead didn't know what to reply to that. "But you could pass along a message to your father, right? Tell him I said hello – and that I hope his keeping himself out of trouble," Geraldine gave him a pointed look and Jughead visibly blanched, something Betty didn't miss because he saw her cast him a curious glance.

"Um," he began. 'He's a good for nothing scoundrel who beat me up. We hadn't had a conversation for months. So yeah, I'll pass that along,' he thought bitterly. "Uh – yeah sure, I could do that," he said instead and Geraldine gave him a bright smile.

Jughead's stomach felt heavy – not with dinner but with that dark murky slug that always consumed him. Suddenly he felt completely out of place inside Geraldine Grundy's grand house eating a fancy beef dinner he can barely pronounce with Riverdale's very own golden girl, Betty Cooper.

"Oh, dear," Geraldine's voice made Jughead look up from his brooding. "This rain is a ghastly piece of work. I didn't think the weather reports would be right."

The two teenagers looked up from their plates to the window, where the heavy rain had transformed the view into a murky gray nothingness. Jughead cursed internally, hands clenched on the silverware, and thought of the growing possibility it would be too difficult to make it back to Riverdale tonight.

"Oh my," Betty said worriedly, "I hope we could make the drive back." Jughead's thoughts were less eloquent and more urgent. He didn't _hope_ they could drive back tonight. They _had_ to. He couldn't stand being here any longer.

Jughead gave a sharp sigh and Betty cast him a worried glance. He didn't want to sound petulant, of course. He kind of liked Geraldine even if she was kind of odd and she made him uncomfortable and he wanted this to work out for Betty, he really did. It was just that he was so anxious and uncomfortable. Jughead always kept to himself. He didn't do conversations. He didn't do fancy dinners with old ladies that could have possibly be even his own grandmother had life turned out differently. And he most certainly didn't do secret smiles with classmates he wouldn't even be alive to see when the school bell rings on Monday morning.

"Maybe we need to get going soon," Jughead directed his comment to Betty, who after a pause gave a meek nod. This was not a time for politeness, at least the weather made sure of that. Jughead thought of Betty's father's beat up truck and the winding roads they had to take. It was going to be an unpleasant ride but his determination outweighed everything. Betty was another story, of course. She kept glancing worriedly at the window, biting her lower lips absently.

"Nonesense!" Geraldine said, waving her arms, "I've got more rooms than I need here. You could drive out in the morning after breakfast,"

"Uhm – I think it's best that we just head out now after dinner," Jughead said, "but, really, thank you Miss Grundy,"

"Geraldine," she corrected him with a smile just as someone came to clear their plates, filling the room with the soft clattering of ceramic and silverware mixing in with the muffled drumming of rain outside. "And, really, my dears I don't mind. I'm rather worried you'd get into an accident out there,"

For a fleeting second, Jughead thought it wasn't such a bad idea getting into an accident, already forgetting that a certain blonde overachieving classmate had come here with him. He felt bad – it was the second time he unconsciously (and selfishly) thought of dragging Betty down with him, so bad was his want to kill himself. He cast a sideway glance at her – back straight and hands folded neatly atop her knees – and thought she didn't deserve to be thought of so callously, didn't need to be unnecessarily dragged into his doom. This made him want to go back home as soon as possible. He needed to distance himself from Betty – or Betty from the likes of him.

"Oh no, we couldn't impose on you like that," she had said, "and besides, my mother – she really doesn't allow me to spend the night away from home." Jughead saw her blush faintly at that. Everyone knew how crazily overprotective Alice Cooper is with her youngest daughter after her eldest, Polly, ended up running away. Betty tugged on the sleeves of her sweater awkwardly. "Rain or shine, I need to be there before my curfew," she giggled but Jughead could sense her apprehension. Geraldine looked at her with understanding and sighed.

"Well, okay then," she relented, "but if in any case the storm worsens you drive right back here, you here?"

Jennifer, Miss Grundy's nurse, also gave them the number of the town's only bed and breakfast, which turns out to be a couple of miles outside of Greenvale and not too far away from the diner they had earlier visited. It was perfect, Betty proclaimed, because they were going there anyway, since she had forgotten her coat there and they were going to come back for it.

"Honey," Jennifer said consolingly, looking Betty up and down, "if it's anything as nice as the rest of your clothes, you won't be getting it back." Jughead almost laughed – hadn't he thought the exact same thing earlier?

"Well, just check yourselves in if it becomes too difficult to drive forward or back," she said. "In any case, I hope you make it back to Riverdale safely."

It took a few seconds for them to run from the front door towards their truck but when they finally made it inside, it looked like Jughead and Betty had plunged head first into Sweetwater River. Jughead could feel beads of water running down the bridge of his nose, his heavy denim jacket even heavier now that he was soaking wet. Betty wasn't looking better. Her blonde curls lay in flat wet clumps past her shoulders and her skirt sent rivulets of water running down her pale legs. Jughead looked up – he shouldn't be staring.

"We can do this," Betty said but it was almost a question. Jughead felt her big worried blue eyes boring into him, waiting for him to assuage her fears.

"No problem at all," he said with a smirk even if the rain splashing against the windshield didn't look all too promising.

"Why are you dead set on returning tonight, anyway?" Betty asked ten minutes into driving blindly into the storm. It was dark out and increasingly getting harder to see through the sheet of rain pounding against the rattling truck. It looks like most of the stores had closed for the night and the only source of light came from the bleak lampposts, which were far and in between. Betty's face illuminated a muted orange as they passed under a lamppost and Jughead noted her slightly frizzy hair and her now damp and dark sweater. Her ballet flats squeaked and squelched lightly as she shifted in her seat and her blue eyes remained almost unsettlingly bright in the darkened car.

"I dunno. I just need to," Jughead replied with a shrug. Betty watched him intently, before looking forward again.

"It's not because your Dad will be worried, isn't it?"

Jughead gave an incredulous scoff but Betty didn't look apologetic or taken aback. Jughead knew everyone in town knew how much of a shitty person FP was – just like how they knew how overbearing Alice Cooper was – and surely Betty was too smart to not have caught on. Besides, they were friends (or acquaintances, however you wanted to look at it) once before and Betty had seen him with a bruise or another, even if they were not close enough for him to give out excuses for them.

"Yeah, no it's not because of that," he replied almost angrily, "trust me."

"Then why are you in so much of a hurry? I mean, nothing that interesting ever happens in Riverdale to demand that kind of urgency," she gave a nervous giggle and Jughead felt it again – felt that somehow she knew what was going on in his head.

"Do you have a girlfriend waiting for you, then?" Betty probed slowly. Jughead threw an amused look at her and she flushed deeply, deeper than he had seen her blush. She fidgeted awkwardly at the hem of her skirt and said quickly, "I mean, I just want to know why it's imperative that we return back right away."

" _Imperative_?" Jughead asked, amused. Only Betty Cooper can manage to use that word in a casual conversation with Riverdale's very own ragamuffin. Betty shrugged and rolled her eyes. "No – no worried fathers, and most especially no girlfriends," he said with another amused chuckle. Betty fidgeted awkwardly beside him.

"If I were you," Betty started slowly, "I'd never want to go back."

Jughead almost stopped. He felt that way – he felt like that every fucking day. When he chanced a glance at her, Betty was looking outside the darkened window so he couldn't really see her face.

"I mean – if I had as much freedom as you do, that is," she said, almost to herself, "if I didn't have a mother who's batshit insane and would keep me in a leash if she could legally get away with it."

It was the first time Jughead heard Betty saying anything remotely mean about anyone. She was frowning too – not the contemplative frown she used earlier, or the annoyed frown she sports when she was arguing with Jughead – just a deep frown that had something Jughead was completely familiar with: remorse and misery.

"Well, my life isn't cupcakes and daisies, you know," Jughead quipped, "trust me, Betty, you don't want to envy me," _or you'd have want to jump the cliff too,_ he mentally added.

Betty turned to him and gave him a weak smile. He was glad she didn't look sorry for him – he couldn't tolerate that – but maybe it was because she was too busy feeling sorry for herself.

"It's just – I really want to get away from Riverdale. Get really, really far away if I could have my way. I want to go to NYU, you know," she told him with a smile, "and study Journalism. My mom –," Betty paused, frowning again, "wouldn't hear any of it. She didn't want me moving away. I guess I understand – after Polly –," Betty's breath hitched and she looked down again.

"It's silly."

"I think you should go," Jughead said seriously. He could totally envision it: Betty Cooper in her preppy clothes, babbling away at discussions in all her classes. Betty Cooper in a café firing away at her laptop. Betty Cooper in important meetings in France or some other country. Betty Cooper – conquering the world.

It seemed cheesy and even thinking it to himself made Jughead cringe. But when Betty looked at him, bright eyes, frizzy hair, clothes, and all, Jughead knew that he might have given up on his life and his dreams, but there will always be hope for Betty – and it made him feel better somehow.

"You'll totally get in, Betty. You should go,"

"What about you, Forsythe Pendleton Jones III? What do you want to do in life?"

Jughead paused at that. He didn't have an answer for Betty. He never even allowed himself to truly imagine life in the future. His present was way too messed up to even let a sliver of hope crack through. Growing up, Jughead learned the hard way not to think too much about good things – it will never happen anyway.

"Folks like us, we're no good. You're no good," FP had once said to him and Jughead knew he believed this more than he should. But Betty's curious eyes bored into him and for a fraction of a second, he allowed to contemplate a life where he didn't struggle, where he wasn't such a loser and a failure.

"I dunno," he said slowly, "I never really thought much into it."

"Oh come on, Jughead. You're not going to be working in the drive-in forever, you know," Betty said with a small giggle.

"Yeah, I guess – considering they'd be closing it down soon." Jughead hadn't meant to sound so bitter but it just came out of him, the sharp edges of his voice lingering into the silence that followed. His shoulder hunched forward, his grip on the stirring wheel tightening, as the familiar misery enveloped him like waves crashing in a storm-ridden sea. Betty probably didn't comprehend the gravity of what the end of the Twilight Drive-In meant to him but she still looked a little abashed, a little ashamed of herself, and Jughead hated that.

"Oh – I'm sorry about that."

"S'not your fault," Jughead said testily, "I'd go get a job at Pop Tate's or something. No big deal." But it _was_ a big deal – at least to him – because demolishing the drive-in theater meant he had to add _homeless_ to the ever-growing list of embarrassing things you could call him. He didn't want to think of it, at least not right now, when they had to drive back to Riverdale on such relentless weather conditions. _This_ is why Jughead didn't like thinking of the future at all. It was all for nothing. What use was thinking about colleges and careers? He'd still be homeless in a couple of weeks. He'd still be dead, preferably. This was his reality. This was his _only_ future. But Betty was persistent, shifting slightly in her seat to face him, eyes eager.

"So – what is it?"

"What's what?"

"What is the answer to that all-time cheesy question? What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Jughead chuckled and shook his head, "grow up, really? I thought you're better versed than that, Cooper."

Betty rolled her eyes, "well, you know what I mean. Just answer the damn question. It's not like I'm asking you the formula of relativity or something."

"It's E=mc2. Got anything harder than _that_?"

"Ha. Ha. You smart ass!"

Jughead chuckled, enjoying irking Betty a little. She gave a small huff and raised an eyebrow at him impatiently. Jughead sighed and figured, 'ah, what the heck. It's going to be a long ride home, anyway.'

"Ah – I hate that question," he stated first, "but I guess if I could – I'd write. Not for a newspaper like you want to – that's boring, no offense," he said because Betty's eyes widened in mock indignation. "Like a novelist. Be like Stephen King or something. But that means I'd probably be penniless and a drunkard somewhere, too." Jughead gave a dark humorless chuckle. At his most hopeful, he somehow still manages to end up picturing himself like his father.

"A novelist," Betty pondered, tapping her chin. "Kind of perfect for you."

"What – you mean I fit the 'penniless alcoholic writer' profile seamlessly?" Jughead joked although he had to fight to keep the barb out of his voice.

"That's not what I meant, you dummy!" she said, managing to sound seven and not seventeen. "I mean – broody, mysterious, loves to be alone, smokes endlessly – you don't even have to try, you know."

"I think I also need to have a little talent, don't you think, Blondie?"

"Yeah – but you've got loads of that already! I mean, at least from all your articles. I'd have to read some of your stories, of course. You do write them, right?" Betty demanded, slipping into her editor-in-chief persona, complete with furrowed brows and stern frown. Jughead almost felt relieved to think about the bent-up old notebook stashed inside his backpack.

"Ah – well," Jughead scratched the back of his neck, "yeah – yeah I do. Mostly garbage. Nonsense, really. You'll never get to see those, Betty. I swear it!"

"As if you could stop me, Jones," Betty said with a scoff. She smiled at him, "But really, Jughead, I'd love to read them sometime – become your first official fan even before you get published!"

Jughead looked away from the road for a fraction of a second to give Betty a smirk – not a sardonic one, like he would usually, but something halfway to a shy smile.

"Just please, on your first novel don't use your real full name, okay? _Forsythe Pendleton Jones III_ – my gosh, it sounds like you're writing some boring book on yachts or something as equally pretentious as that!"

They burst out laughing at that –

" _Juggie, watch out! –,_ "

The headlights came from nowhere – two bright yellow blobs like eyes popping out from the gray curtain of rain.

 _Honk! Hooooonk!_

It sounded to Jughead like a great monster, roaring and blaring as it came careening towards them. He cursed loudly and stirred the wheel sharply to the right, then to the left, the road swaying like a bad television frequency before them, the asphalt slick and slippery like ice. The tires screeched loudly, deafeningly, sounding like screams in the night – or was it Betty actually screaming?

The rain pounded hard against the top of the truck, loud like beating drums, wild like the pounding of his heart, which felt like it was breaking out from his chest so hard it was physically painful. At this moment, when everything swirled and swayed into one indiscernible mess, Jughead realized something so sudden it was almost absurd:

Jughead Jones realized he was terrified.

* * *

 **A/N: Please, please continue sending in your love (and general feelings) for this story through reviews, favorites, and follows! It truly is inspiring! See you next chapter! Cheers, yo!**


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